


Hold Me In Your Arms

by pleasenomorefeels



Series: Sugar high writing experiment [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, quick fix amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:38:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasenomorefeels/pseuds/pleasenomorefeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I can't add a summary because I'm really not sure what happened but basically HAPPY ENDING STUCKY</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hold Me In Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> So we decided to conduct an experiment - do I write better when I'm on a massive sugar high? I'm so so sorry...

'When all of our friends are dead and just a memory, and we're side by side, it's always been just you and me...' (Skulls, Bastille)

He's home, he's back, he's home. It's all I can think and it rolls round my head like a mantra, over and over and over. But he doesn't remember. Me, him, us. Our lives. But he could, (or so the doctors say), and that is what gives me hope to get up and go back to the hospital where Bucky (or some version of him) is waiting for me.

Steve, that's what he said his name was, comes back into the hospital room, looking so lost and sad that I (Bucky, I have to remember that) just want to wrap him up and protect him from the world. It feels like an instinct, more deeply ingrained that any of my Soviet training, and for a second I don't want to resist. But. I. Am. Not. Something. To. Be. Controlled. (Well, they say I should think that, and these SHIELD folk don't seem so bad...). But the way Steve so obviously tries to cover up the pain (maybe he doesn't want me back, broken, lost, not who he needs, not who he remembers, wants...) makes something I was never quite sure I had (people seem to call it their heart - in a metaphorical sense of course) freeze inside me. He should never have to feel that way. 

Before I could register the movement I was already across the room, pulling Steve's head to my shoulder, arms around his broad (way too broad still not used to it - wait what?) shoulders. That thought - one of a past I didn't remember, one with this stranger, this Steve - shocked me, and I stood stock still (for too long, looking like an absolute idiot there Barnes, wait who, me?, oh yeah, me). 

'Bucky?' His voice, soft and tentative, (too tentative, he shouldn't have to be so careful around me), is muffled by the hospital gown his face is shoved in. 'D'ya want to let me breathe sometime soon?' I step back, far away, embarrassed by the show of...show of what? Affection? But something inside me tells me that I shouldn't be, (more like yells, every part of me is screaming that I need to be closer, closer, closer, that it's been too long). 

And I break.

I crumble and he catches me and everything about it seems so right that I can't bring myself to care that a stranger is cradling my body to his frankly enormous chest, whispering soothing shit that actually seems to be helping and rocking slowly. 

When I calm down enough to actually listen to what he's saying the words seem less soothing. They grate, although maybe that's not the right word, but they feel like an itch you can't reach, something that tugs and tugs at you until you want to scream in frustration. He's telling a story, about us evidently, me, when I was someone else, and him, and he says he was someone else too, someone he still remembers, but only just. And he paints a picture (both in the story and figuratively- ha Steve I can use big words too! - erm ok then) and the words tug and tug and tug until I feel something fall apart, and everything floods back and I scream because years and years of memories (of Steve, Steve, drink and more Steve) is a lot to take in and I can hear Steve yelling - for a nurse, for me to tell him what's happening. And as suddenly as it started, it stops.

And I lift my head and kiss him, as I've done so many times before, as so many different men. This new me, the ex-Soviet brainwashed assassin, is just another to add to the list.


End file.
